


Scenes from My Head: Lavellan Says Goodbye

by razorblade456



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Drama & Romance, F/M, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-19
Updated: 2015-10-19
Packaged: 2018-04-27 03:47:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5032558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/razorblade456/pseuds/razorblade456
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My f!Lavellan mage says her final goodbyes to Skyhold, only to find she was not the only one.</p>
<p>This part of my Scenes from My Head series, which is a collection of short stories and dialogue exchanges from Bioware games that have become firmly ingrained headcanon. You can find more on my tumblr at hwills456.tumblr.com, search under SFMH.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scenes from My Head: Lavellan Says Goodbye

Lavellan sat at the edge of the pool of water, the waterfall feeding it a gentle hum in her ear. She looked down at her left hand, opening and closing it several times. It looked as she remembered it, but like all things in the Fade, it felt real and not--as if she grew too distracted, it would disappear. She leaned back on her hands, testing her weight against them. Finding them stable, she dipped her bare feet into the warm, water. With no reference from what it was like in the physical realm, her desire filled in the blanks.

Mist from the waterfall swirled in the air, clinging to her long, flowing locks like stars in the milky, twilight. Fog billowed in large clouds around the two mountainous stag statues to her left and right, and tasted of earth and greenery. Just as she remembered it.

She’d come here many times over the past two years, more so since she’d last seen Solas. This place pulling at her each night, drawing her to the place where she’d last seen him smile. Right before it had all changed.

She closed her eyes, struggling to conjure their last moments here. The feel of his hand within hers. The taste of his mouth. The look of pure love within his eyes. There was hope then, but how quickly it was snuffed out.

“Why didn’t you tell me, Solas?” she whispered.   

The familiar ache squeezed in her chest. If only she’d put the pieces together sooner, when his resolve had wavered. They could have found another solution together. He didn’t need to be alone.

Through the foggy distance of the Fade, she felt his gaze, his loneliness and longing as palatable as her own. Her blood screamed to run to him. That this time he would wait for her.

“Don’t do it,” she chastised herself, but forever the fool, she couldn’t stop from trying.

Lavellan opened her eyes, turned and reached out to him. But like all the times before, all she saw was the fleeting streak of a retreating wolf into the trees.

Without the anchor, it was harder to control her time within the Fade and too soon the world grew soft, and she was pulled back to the physical realm.

 

~*~

 

She awoke in a copper tub, the water still warm, before a crackling fire. She must have dozed off during her bath. Before the Inquisition, she’d never experienced anything so lavish, and there was a very real possibility she never would again. Around her the familiar walls of her quarters were painted a grey-blue with the rising sun. Today was the day to say goodbye.

She rose from the tub and quickly dried off, tossing the soft, plush towel onto the bed. She dressed in her well worn, Dalish garments, choosing them over the fine silks she’d worn over the past five years. The Inquisition no longer existed, and it’s trappings would only hinder her. For years, she needed to stand out. To inspire onlookers that confused fine clothes for power and influence. Now, she needed to disappear.

She ran her hand along the top of her head, fingering what remained from the long tresses she so meticulously cared for over the years. Now her hair was no more than a tuff on the top of her head, the sides shaved to a scratchy stubble-- better to showcase the ugly burn scars that now ran along her neck, down her left shoulder and what remained of her arm.

Picking up a hand mirror from her dresser, she examined the burns she’d done to herself the night before. With a bit of spirit magic, they looked old and healed over-- wounds from an overzealous chevalier _shem_ , but it wasn’t enough. Her particular _vasselin_ was common among the Dalish, but she needed something to distract from the faded scar over her brow. She needed to control the narrative of her appearance, lest she be recognized.

She placed the mirror back on the dresser and pulled a blade from her belt. With a bracing breath, she sliced the knife along the right side of her mouth, cutting across both lips and against her chin. She dropped the blade, swallowed the grunt of pain climbing up her throat and quickly held her abandoned towel against the wound. This one she would let heal on its own.

From the other side of her chamber door came a sharp rap of knuckles against wood. “Your Worship?”

Lavellan pulled the towel from her mouth, now stained a vibrant crimson, and answered, “Enter.”

“Your Worship, everything is ready for your departure to Kirkwa--” Scout Harding stopped mid stride and gasped. “What happened? Are you alright? Did someone attack?”

“I’m fine, Scout Harding,” she said, dabbing at her mouth. When she was satisfied that blood would no longer continue to drip down her chin, she dropped the towel to the floor. “And I’m not going to Kirkwall.”

“Your Worship?” Harding answered, picking up the bloodied towel and knife from the floor. “I promised the Divine I would safely escort you to Kirkwall. You agreed.”

“Yes, and that is exactly what you’re going to do-- or at least that is what everyone will think.” Lavellan strode over to her desk and picked up the arm Dagna made her in secret before leaving Skyhold. “Forty miles from here, there is a forest to the west. Follow a small stream into the woods until you reach a cropping of rocks that looks over a small creek. Look for a carving of a halla on one of the surrounding trees. That is where you will meet a member of my clan and a dear friend of mine. She looks very similar to me. Long brown hair, same _vasselin_. From this moment on, she is me.” She placed the arm against her stump. With a press of a button, clawed teeth sprung forth and sunk into her flesh to hold it into place. Blood followed the grooved paths carved into the teeth, feeding the enchanted metal, and the hand came to life. Testing her fingers, she continued, “Take care, Harding; she sacrificed much for this mission.”

Scout Harding swallowed hard and nodded her head.

Finding her new arm clunky but satisfactory, she took a pair of long leather gloves from the top drawer of her dresser and pulled them on. She hoped it would be enough. That anyone that cared to look would blame her poor articulation and the desire to hide her arm on the burns.

“Downstairs you will find a parcel containing clothes that she is to wear and sealed letters for Varric, Keeper Deshanna, and Divine Victoria. It is important that you hand deliver these personally and make sure they are burned immediately after reading them. There are spies everywhere, and we cannot let any of them know the truth.”

“You can trust me, Your Worship,” she vowed, cleaning the blood from Lavellan’s blade. Her words grew thick as she held the knife out in offering.“May I ask where you plan to go?”

“The less you know the better, I’m afraid,” she answered gently, taking the blade and sliding it back into her belt. “Thank you. You’ve been a good friend.” She squeezed the young woman’s shoulder in farewell. “Now go. You must leave now if you are to reach her before nightfall.”

Scout Harding ran a single knuckle under her eyes and cleared her throat. “Maker guide your journey, Inquisitor.”

“Thank you,” she replied, though she was unsure there were any true Gods anymore. The elven gods were no more than corrupt mages, so maybe their Maker existed-- an old Tevinter mage perhaps. “Safe travels, Harding.”

 

~*~

 

Lavellan wandered the deserted grounds, saying her final goodbyes to the place that had at first scared her with its enclosed walls and massive pillars, but grew to be something she’d never experienced before--a place to return to. A home.

She finished her journey in the great hall, dropping her pack to the floor and leaning her new staff against the wall, a simple length of ironbark with a glass orb cradled in a nest of twisted branches on top. A dramatic change from her gold staff with a dragon perched on top, wings outstretched and menacing. But as most things regarding magic, looks were often deceiving, much like herself.

The hall stood empty, bare floors highlighted in greens and yellows under the stained glass windows. Her eyes traced the familiar stone walls, now picked clean-- the rich tapestries and gold plated murals stripped away and packed safely into cedar trucks-- shipped where, she did not know. What once was filled with life no longer held a trace of the forces that shook the fates of nations.

She thought of the first Inquisitor, also a Dalish mage, and wondered if she too was already being erased by history, replaced by a human that was touched by Andraste. Perhaps she would be Andraste reborn, sent by the Maker to once again save Thedas from magic. Though that could only help her mission, the thought still stung. Granted, if she did not succeed, there would be no one left to rewrite history.

Her heart felt swollen and bruised, fresh with the grief of all that she’d lost. Good sense told her not to look. That no good could come of it, but there was one room she’d yet to say goodbye to.

Unlike the rest of Skyhold, this room was left untouched. By her order, everything was exactly as he left it--the Veilfire still burning, casting its blue light against the rich colors of the murals marking her history. A small, sad smile tugged at her lips. Solas, a man that had seen how far history could be altered, would not let the truth go undocumented. Here she would not be rewritten.

_“I will never forget you.”_

His parting words whispered in her ear, her mind clinging to the memory, desperate to remember the exact sound of his voice. For memories was all she had left. Even if she did find Solas, he might not still be the man she loved.

_“I would not have you see what I become.”_

A cold shiver rippled down her back, his warning a frightening picture. Lavellen shook her head and ground her teeth. He was not lost to her. She _would_ save him.

She squared her shoulders and stealed herself to look for the last time. She couldn’t recall, or perhaps too sad to admit, the amount of hours she wasted staring at the unfinished piece.

With a weighty breath, she looked, and the force of what she saw slammed against her, her cry echoing off the rotunda walls. The mural was complete, more vibrant than all of the pieces before it.

He was here.

“Solas!” she shouted, racing back into the great hall.

Her heart, only moments ago heavy with despair, now thundered wildly in her chest. Hope filled her, as she frenziedly searched for him, but reality quickly set back in. She’d just walked every part of Skyhold and knew he wasn’t there.

With leaden feet, she returned to the rotunda--a sickening dread slicing through her belly. She wasn’t the only one saying their final goodbyes.

On the couch before the mural sat a leather bound book-- one she didn’t recognize. Torn between wanting to know, and fear of what lay within its pages, she walked over and picked up the book.

It was lighter than she expected, only on closer inspection noticing that pages had been torn from the back. She didn’t know what it was, but she had no doubt who left it.

She sat down, placed the book in her lap, and with a wave of her hand, lit the wall sconces around the room. With trembling fingers, she caressed the well worn leather cover, the soft page edges, then finally untied the leather string that bound the book closed.

At first the words were foreign other than the familiar hand that wrote them-- Solas, but then the whispers came and like recalling a distant memory, the words became known to her. They were written in ancient elvhen.

The first few pages seemed to be Solas’s notes from when she lay unconscious after the explosion of the Conclave. Drawings of her hand, frustration over the magic trapped inside, and growing concern about the “overzealous seeker.” One line stood out to her, _“It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.”_

These pages were followed with illustrations of rifts and Lavellan holding her hand up to close them. Surrounding them were more notes. Questions whether the anchor alone closed them or amplified her power as a mage to give her the power to close them. The anchor allowed her to enter physically into the Fade--could she bring others? If he could get the orb back, could he siphon the power from her and back into the orb?

Lavellan furrowed her brow. Why would he leave her his notes on the anchor? The orb was destroyed, as well as the anchor--and her hand with it. Solas was not a man to mock her, so for some reason he felt she needed this information.

It wasn’t until she reached him recounting their first real conversation in Haven that she understood. This wasn’t just his notes. This was his journal recounting the three years he spent with the Inquisition.

It grew hard to swallow, her throat tight with emotion. Her lips stung as she pressed them tightly together, but no matter how hard she tried, the frustratingly familiar tears dripped down her cheeks.

_“I would not lay with you under false pretenses.”_

His final gift to her would be proof that they were not a lie.

She roughly scrubbed the tears from her face and laughed. “Indomitable focus, indeed,” she whispered, reading his pleasant surprise and intrigue over their early flirtations.

_“She is different than others I have met of her kind. Curious and more open to new possibilities. Her thirst for knowledge is admirable, quite at odds with the other Dalish I’ve encountered that are more than content to cling to ignorance,”_ he wrote, very much the man she remembered, but he finished with a glimmer of the man he would become. _“She challenged me to share what I know with the elves. She makes a fair point. How can I fault them their ignorance when they have no way of knowing the truth?”_ There was a clear stain of ink where he seemed to have hesitated, before adding, _“She is clever. I must be careful.”_

“Not clever enough, I’m afraid,” Lavellan spoke to the pages. What a fool she was. Speaking of elven lore, of Fen’harel, to the man who actually lived it. A child recounting bedtime stories and calling them truth. The irony, of course, was that Solas was a poor liar. Every part of him spoke to the man he truly was. His rigid posture. His arrogance. His knowledge that he continuously blamed on the Fade. How many times did he blunder, revealing bits of truth, and it was too unfathomable for her to put the pieces together?

She was not all he wrote of. He recorded his growing admiration for Cassandra, his amusement with Varric and interest in his novels, his disdain for Iron Bull’s foolish loyalty to the _Qun_. For such a usually verbose man, most of his entries were more short handed notes than drawn out recounts, accompanied by his familiar illustrations--all looking as if they could be found on ancient temple walls. Yet another clue.

A bittersweet, laugh escaped her lips when she reached his entry after the fall of Haven:

_“I take it all back. She is a foolish woman. Dying to save the surviving occupants of Haven. And what will these survivors do when all of Thedas is overrun by demons, because the only person that could close the rifts is dead and buried under hundreds of feet of snow? Will they be pleased they survived when Corypheus succeeds in his foolish quest to godhood? Idiot woman.”_

By surviving the attack, his opinion of her quickly changed. At first, it was as she feared. He recorded his plans to steer her towards retrieving the orb, revealing only the information she needed to know, attempting to absolve his guilt that he didn’t outright lie and soon it wouldn’t matter. Then she reached that fateful day in the Fade. He had planned it as an exercise to see how the anchor affected her control in the Fade--that was until she boldly kissed him, and he passionately responded in kind.

_“I’ve made a horrible mistake. In the Fade, one must remain pure of heart and mind, intune and unconflicted about oneself, lest they project these feelings onto spirits and risk turning them against their purpose. I fear my usual ease within the Fade has led me to act with selfish desire. She kissed me, and when she pulled away, overcome with longing, I drew her back._

_Rarely at a loss for words, I find myself surprisingly lacking the ability to fully express what came over me. She is--unique. Enthralling. Beautiful. Kind. It has been so long, and she makes me feel-- alive. In her eyes, under her touch, I feel myself--not Fen’harel, but Solas. She is intoxicating, and I want to-- but it would be foolish and cruel to encourage such a thing._

_I must apologize immediately and spurn any further advances. She deserves a better man than I.”_

“Oh, Solas,” she lamented, his loneliness palatable on the page.

She pressed the tips of her fingers to her lips, recalling that first kiss. She’d never been so bold before in matters such as these, but speaking of how he felt her change the world, change everything--no one had ever said such things to her. She remembered the sliver of panic race through her belly when she pulled away, afraid she had read the signs wrong when he didn’t kiss her back.

Then he shook his head and kissed her. A kiss that melted her bones and left her breathless. And when that one ended, he looked at her with insatiable desire, and kissed her again. Oh how the earth shifted then. She felt weightless, melded against him--his sweet, skillful mouth the only anchor to her world. Little did she know, being in the Fade, she really could have floated away.

She was crushed when he apologized, treating something that moved her so as a mistake, but she hadn’t read the signs wrong. He’d felt it too. His resistance was for her protection, and for his she imagined, but even knowing all that she would suffer loving this man, she would risk her heart all over again. There was no doubt she’d love this man until her very last breath and likely beyond, and now, reading his words, she began to believe the same of him.

_“How her offer tempts me,”_   she read pages later next to a sketch that was unmistakably her.

He showed her with a furrowed brow, a loose lock of hair curled around one of her fingers, as she appeared to squint over a huge tome propped up in her lap. She looked nothing like his normal works, instead alive and vivid under his charcoal strokes. This was not to capture history, but to remember a specific moment in time. This was solely for him.

_“A wise man would turn her away, but I fear I am a foolish man. She is exquisite, and I could love her as easily as taking my next breath. Perhaps, I already do._

_There is only one way this can end, and she has no idea. My warnings seem small when she doesn’t know the truth, and I cannot tell her._

_She casts light where there was once only darkness, and I’m powerlessly drawn to it. It is selfish, but to lose her-- I can’t bear it. For however long we have together, I will take it, and all the pain that comes with it. If she will still have me. Perhaps there is a chance she may save us both.”_

Blood dripped down her fingers. In her revelry, she reopened the cut on her lip. She pressed the scarf around her neck to her mouth, dabbing until the wound once again clotted. She touched the new scars on her neck. Would he still find her exquisite? Would he still think her perfect?

More pages followed filled with drawings of her.

Her face turned up towards the sun in bliss, beams of light peaking through a canopy of trees casting her in glowing light. Their time in the Emerald Graves, perhaps?

“Oh--” Lavellan whispered, heat crawling up her neck, as she examined the next sketch. It was her after they’d made love--her expression tender, eyes soft, lips pulled up on one side. Her hair wild around her face.

“His memory is impeccable,” she muttered.

He drew of everyday things.

Her looking into a mirror, hands high as she twisted her long hair into the elaborate array of braids that kept it from impairing her vision or movements.

Her sleeping, hair a long wave on the pillow, hand tucked tight under her chin. Beside it a small entry, _“For the first time I want to be here within the physical realm more than the Fade. I want to watch her sleep. I want to see her face when she wakes. I want to be with her--bone and flesh and blood. Can one truly change their fate? Could she forgive me if she knew the truth? That I am responsible for the fall of our people.”_

Hours passed as Lavellan read each word, studied each careful drawing, her heart aching and anxiety creeping as she grew closer to the last pages. Part of her wanted to savor his words, dole them out over the lonely nights ahead, but she could not bear to stop reliving these moments through his eyes.

She reached his entry after the Temple of Mythal, and her mouth grew dry, heart pounding loudly in her ears. She felt as if she stood at the edge of a cliff, knowing she must jump but fearing the fall.

_“She drank from the well! Why did I let her drink from the well? I cannot protect her from this.”_ He wrote, his words pressed hard and heavy onto the page, his fear and worry blatant in each stroke of his pen.

Then came the moment. The moment she changed his mind and didn’t even know it. The moment he thought their future was possible. _“With her new power, she speaks of building up what was lost. Of giving the elven people a home and connection to their past. She wants me to help her. I can’t help but think of Abelas, as far removed from time as I, robbed of what little tied him to our people. Perhaps, we could rebuild from what remains--perhaps it is time to start anew.”_

Following the entry was her painted in his classic style, standing with a benevolent glow, her hands cupping the face of the man kneeled before her. The man was cut from a wolf’s silhouette--Solas. There was forgiveness on her face and hope on his. Below it written simply, _“I must to tell her the truth.”_

And then came the fall. The entry she both feared and wished to read more than all the others. What did she say? What did she do that he decided to continue this path of destruction?

It was not as she expected. His normal careful writing was replaced with hurried words, smeared under an ink stained hand. He offered no answers, but a glimpse into a part of him she’d never seen before. Raw and wounded, his emotions exposed in broken, choppy sentences.

_“I’m sorry--- forgive me--- Foolish to believe-- Doomed from the start--- I must protect her, even from me.--- Better this way--- She should be furious. Why is she not furious? She still looks at me with love in her eyes. Do not love me, my heart---you deserve so much more.”_

Beside his final entry was his last drawing of her-- hair no longer in its familiar, elaborate display, but a single long braid over her shoulder. Her eyes watery and red, purple smudges underneath. Her mouth and brows drawn down. Despair and confusion written across her face.This page was well worn, more than the rest, with clear wrinkles and stains where water had dripped on it.

The image blurred before her, silent tears spilling down her cheeks.

“Of course, you choose to focus on the pain you caused over the joy you brought me,” she murmured. “Oh Solas, it didn’t have to be this way.”

The following pages were ripped from the book-- more secrets to keep from her. Most likely the ones that would lead her to him. In their stead was a single folded paper, a letter written in the common tongue.

 

_Vhenan,_

_I may not have told you everything, but everything I told you was true. About me, about how I feel about you. I never want you to doubt that I love you. I hope that gives you some comfort._

_Nothing would give me greater joy than to spend my days at your side, but my mission is bigger than us both. In trying to protect our people, I destroyed the world, and to fix it, I must destroy it again. But life will survive from these ashes._

_I know it goes against your very nature to do nothing when there are those that will suffer at the hands of my actions, so I will not waste my only request of you on something you will not follow._

_I ask only this of you: do not return to the waterfall within the Fade. It’s steeped in the events of our last night there, and your emotions are a siren song to those that would harm you. Because of what I must do, I can no longer be there to keep them at bay. I know you are strong, but their promises are tempting._

_Dareth la ma serannas, vhenan. Thank you for risking your heart on me. Though we may be apart, loving you means I will never be alone for I take you with me._

_Ar lath ma la ir abelas, vhenan._

_Solas_

Lavellan closed the journal and held it tight against her chest. Her very soul ached for them both. All the things that she loved about him was also their undoing. His intellect. His passion. His steadfast loyalty.

It was too easy to see herself in his place. She was fortunate that when she traveled through time, the future was a horrid place that needed to be stopped. There was no grey of innocents. She could only make it better, but what if Corypheus had been the benevolent ruler he claimed to be? What if the future had been nuanced enough that both good and bad would have come from his demise?

“I’m not giving up,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “There is another way, and I will find it. I promised I would protect you, and I will, even if it is from yourself.”

She carefully tied the book closed. Though he meant it as goodbye, his words only strengthened her resolve. She knew he loved her, and she knew the strength of his loyalty. All she needed now was another plan, someway to strike balance between the Fade and the physical realm. If she could prove there was a way to rebuild from what they had, she was sure she could convince him.

Looking around the room, she took in the murals for the last time. It would be easy to stay for another day, but it was time. She stood, holding the journal tight against her breast, and gently kissed the finished painting.

“ _Var lath vir suledin,_ ” she murmured, walking to the door. With a swift gesture of her hand, she extinguished the fire in the room, casting the rotunda into darkness.  

Lavellan retrieved her pack, tucking the book carefully inside, and picked up her staff, liking the weight of it in her hand. Though it was difficult to say goodbye, change was good, and though she worried what the future may hold, she did not fear it. If she learned anything from recent events, one must value the past but not be ruled by it.

“ _Dareth shiral, Tarasyl'an Te'las,_ ” she said, walking out into the afternoon light. “May the next people you shelter find the peace and comfort you gave to me.”  
  


 


End file.
